


Comfortable in his skin

by MostFacinorous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gore, Horror, M/M, dark themes, unpleasantries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's off about Stiles. He doesn't move right, doesn't smell right... and he's violent. So, so incredibly violent. </p><p>Something's wrong with a member of Derek's pack, and he needs to find out what. </p><p>~Spooky Halloween Fic~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfortable in his skin

It was another petty fight for territory, like a dozen skirmishes before it. 

Stories of how the Hale pack had been killed, then had risen, only to be killed and to rise again, had made their rounds of the country, from the mouth of hunter to wolf, from monster to prey, and gaining in exaggeration along the way, until it seemed less like a fairytale, and more like a challenge.

The stragglers, the omegas that came seeking to prove themselves or die trying had been nothing but disappointed to find that the legendary pack was made of high school kids and their obnoxious pet humans… and more disappointed still to find themselves bested by some combination thereof. 

This should be no different, in theory, except that the pack was standing back, wary and watching as Stiles-- ungainly, smart ass, pale skin and sarcasm Stiles-- ripped a full grown wolf to shreds. 

When it was done, when the omega was laying in several pieces in a pool of his own blood, Stiles turned to Derek. Not to Scott, not to Lydia… not seeking comfort when he realized the extent of his violence. But to Derek, seeking approval. 

He strolled forward, his limbs somehow looser and his movements slightly disjointed… something not quite right about him. 

"What?" He asked, and Derek slammed his jaw shut. 

"Nice work." He praised, and Stiles grinned, his lips stretching obscenely over his teeth like they were being puppeteered by invisible strings. 

Stiles nodded and walked past, pulling his hood up as he did. 

Derek still got a whiff of him, though. He smelled of Stiles, and blood, and something… rotten. Something rotting. Something dead. 

The betas stared at him, eyes big and round and confused, and not even Scott seemed willing to approach him. 

They stood, frozen to the spot, until the headlights to the jeep pierced the darkness, and they could all hear Stiles pull out of the gravel parking lot, heading away from the trailhead. 

"I'm going to go find out what that was about. Take care of this." Derek told them, and Scott shivered. 

Boyd clasped Erica and Isaac to his sides, and nodded, and Peter just backed away. 

Like Derek would much rather be doing right now. 

But he couldn't. Something was wrong with one of his pack. He needed to find out what.  
He followed the old jeep- Stiles- dead thing smell, surprisingly not back to Stiles's house, but to a small cabin, deeper into the reserve. One Derek had never seen before. 

The jeep was parked out front by the time he got there, small popping crackling noises coming from under the hood as the engine cooled, and inside he could hear the sounds of sex. Wet, slipping noises, sounds like moaning…  
He flushed, rethinking his determination to see Stiles—was this why he was behaving so odd? But why would he keep this a secret, of all things? Knowing him, the loud mouthed teenager, Derek would have put his money on loud announcements and oversharing. Not secrecy.  
And then someone in the cabin screamed, and Derek could only picture the decimated wolf in the forest.

He put the brunt of his shoulder to the wood of the door, sending it flying open with one mighty shove. 

It wasn't what he thought. 

Even in the dark, he could pick out the scene perfectly, even though he would spend years wishing he hadn't. Wishing, for once in his life, that he had the weak, pathetic eyes of a regular human, so he wouldn't have this scene painted on the inside of his eyelids every time he tried to sleep. 

The dead thing's back was to him, slimy and moist and rotting, the flesh almost dripping off of it, but firming as he watched. It lifted and lowered itself onto the body below it. The body that was a mass of bare muscles, of sticky blood, dried and new alike. The moaning, crying mess that had once been Stiles, but was now barely alive, by some magic he didn't know and didn't like. 

And just inside the door, no more than two feet from him, was Stiles's skin. 

The dead thing—hag, his mind supplied unhelpfully—rose, her inner thighs coated with the red black of Stiles's blood. 

"Ohhh, big strong Alpha, had to follow me home. Had to know my secret." She taunted him in Stiles's voice. "That's alright. He wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway. Virgins, you know? No stamina." She smiled at her own bad joke, her teeth showing through the rotted out flesh of her cheeks.  
She stalked towards him, the same disjointed graceful gait as Stiles had used earlier. 

"And now you're wondering how long it's been, aren't you? How long has he been here, like this, how long have I been wearing him, touching you and your pups—they told me you'd be more of a challenge, Hale. But really, you're just a better suit. I look forward to looking good in those pecs." Her mouth twisted into a leer, and Derek felt nauseous. 

"What did you—" He managed, before Stiles gave a gurgling little gasp on the floor, trying to sit up and falling limp as the pain of moving knocked him unconscious.  
"The way we always have, Derek. You've heard the stories, I'm sure. Pretty girl takes home some guy, peels off her clothes. Peels off her skin… rides him, sucks the life out of him, and then makes herself a nice boysuit, to attract the next pretty girl she's going to be. And on we go, and on we live… but you, oho—you could attract any body you want with that body, couldn't you?" She was advancing again, and Derek was sidestepping, trying to get closer to Stiles. 

He had some sort of hazy, horrified thought that if he could get the skin and get him out of here, maybe Deaton could fix him, or maybe he could bite him, and… 

"He wanted you, did you know? He called for you before he even knew there was something wrong. When he was still writhing and screaming with pleasure. I made it good for him. Don't you worry."

Derek screamed, anger and pain and rage all boiling forth, and he lunged at her, transforming midair and taking her by surprise. 

His claws pierced her torso, sliding through the rotting meat with a sickening noise, and just continuing onwards, until he was elbow deep in her, and poking through the other side. 

Her surprise faded, and she laughed. 

"Well that's one way for us to get closer, but you gave me a little boo boo. How about a kiss to make it better?" She pushed her face in towards him, something in the hollow of her throat seeming to glow as she inhaled deeply.

He jerked backwards and bit her, shaking and twisting her until her head came off and went rolling across the floor. 

"Oh good. Good job there, Rambo. It'll take me a bit, but I'll die, now… and when I go, so does your boyfriend over there."

Derek punted her head out the door, then lifted the skin, fighting down his urge to vomit. 

"Stiles?" His voice was soft, gentler than he thought he'd sounded since the day that everyone had died. "Stiles, I need to move you now, okay? We have to get you to Deaton, get you to—" He choked, gagging on bile as he knelt down next to the once vibrant boy, now a still mess on the floor. 

His eyes were open and he was speaking, lips moving, though all Derek could hear, even with his wolf ears, were wet bubbling sounds. 

He lowered his head closer to Stiles's lips, the stench of days old spoiling meat gagging him all over again. 

"Knew you—'d come." Stiles managed.  
And then he was gone. 

Derek sat there for a long time.

Was still there when the Sheriff tracked Stiles's phone to his jeep, when his eyes were met with the sight of his son's body, the man kneeling on the concrete of the floor with his son's skin in his lap, somehow in a single piece, intact and seamless, like he'd been skinned like a rabbit. 

Derek Hale was taken into custody, and like last time, he never said a word. 

But unlike last time, his eyes were blank, vacant, like all of the life had been drained out of him as surely as it had been drained out of Stilinski's son. 

They loaded the evidence of the gorey scene into the vans, and as they drove off, nothing broke through Derek's glazed, haunted eyes. 

Not even the howling of a pack of wolves in the forest nearby.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in the midst of one of my fevers, where my brain does odd, strange, weird stuff. So uh, sorry? 
> 
> Happy Halloween,  
> from MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!


End file.
